


paste gems and other imitations

by orphan_account



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Curufin Has Daddy Issues, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 12:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17981183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Curufin tries to be his father then himself, neither of which is quite enough to survive Angband in one piece.Morgoth's Feanor issues are a problem for everyone around him but especially people with Feanor's face in the immediate aftermath of Feanor's death.





	paste gems and other imitations

Morgoth called him by his father's name.

At first Curufin had tried to play into it, hoping it might make the torments cease. A silly notion, looking back, but one buoyed by a lifetime of experience with using Feanor's name and Feanor's face to get what he wanted. So he tilted his chin like his father did when he was displeased, put on his father's dismissiveness and determination like a cape, and spoke with the certainty that had defined the finest craftsman of the Noldor.

The fiery declamations and oaths of vengeance had only served to make the monster's ardor burn brighter. Every time Curufin fought him, every time he called him a wretch of Mandos or a spider bitten coward, Morgoth laughed and took him up into his lap. So great was the enemy in stature that he could dandle Curufin upon his knee. He did not, of course, engage in any act so innocent.

It was little comfort that Morgoth's chosen form was so misshapen that any assault on his body would no doubt kill him, for Morgoth's perversions were great and he had designed many cruelties that could be carried out using Curufin's unwilling hands and thighs. And he had his monsters, awful things that had never seen the light, violate him, of course, for the Enemy rejoicing in seeing suffering even if it was not inflicting it.

At first the pain- of body and soul- had been so great that he had been sure he would die. He thought of his wife, who he had quarreled with at last parting but whose face he now yearned for.

(He never thought of his son, not in this place, for dreams were weapons they used against you.)

Marriage was meant to be a blessing. Surely to no being could survive it's desecration.

But, Curufin thought bitterly, I left all sanctity and my wedded life behind me. What can they take away that I have not already discarded? Besides, his oath burned deep within him. He felt it pulling at him as it had pulled at his father and it did not know of pain or degradation. All it sought were the Silmarilli, which shone like beacons as he was tortured and caressed by unclean hands.

In this place his father's legacy would destroy him.

So he came to believe, after a while. In the instinct of self-preservation, he decided to put away his mask of fire.

It was harder than it seemed, to be himself. All his life his first instinct at the hint of trouble had been to imitate Feanor. He could be Curufin in times of fair weather but when the storms came his foolish heart urged him to be his father's son. When Morgoth placed one large hand on his bare chest, he yearned to shout, to swear, to be anything but cold. Injury demanded response.

It took a cold heart to stare and smile as horrors were acted out- on your own person no less- so Curufin made himself cold. Perhaps it would have happened eventually anyways.

Now when hands reached for him he went limp. He did not fight but neither did he respond. When the Silmarilli were dangled in front of his face he did not reach for them or gnash his teeth- he did not even look in their direction.

Somehow even this show of distinctly non-Feanorlike behavior did not dissuade Morgoth, who was more foul in purpose than any other creature. His interest, such as it seemed, did not require a personality, just a body. And Curufin still wore his father's face.

Once, when he was left alone near enough to a knife, he considered slicing it off. But the forces of Morgoth did include healers (brutish as they were) and he did not trust such an action would do anything more than entertain.

Besides, he couldn't bear to disavow his father, even in that small way.

No, Curufin decided, in the little part of his heart now inured to trauma and therefore still able to engage in useful discourse, he'd have to wait it out. Perhaps every day a little bit of his spirit died, his memories grew blurrier, and the piece of him still able to think clearly grew smaller, but this was a technical difficulty to be worked around. There were not, as it were, any other options.

One day as he lingered in his usual place, bound to it by chains of frankly subpar iron, a lady clad in shadows came upon him. She stood silent in that place, a nook amid the terrors of Morgoth's kingdom. It took Curufin several minutes to place her, and several more to decide if he should speak up. He avoided most of the beasts who lurked in this place, for they were canny and cruel, but something about her bearing reminded him of home.

"You wear a hunter's cloak, lady," he said in a voice cobwebbed by neglect.

She glanced at him, as if noticing for the first time that he was not a part of the scenery. "I do. You are-"

"What were you hunting?" Curufin asked hastily, to avoid the inevitable identification. It was one thing to have it tacitly known that Feanor's son was so abused, but having it acknowledged out loud stung what little of his pride was left. He tried a smile that had been charming, once upon a time. He had not had reason to charm anyone but his enemy for quite some time now and it had grown strained.

"This and that," she smiled a smile full of teeth, "Your kin,"

Curufin barked a laugh, caught off guard by the sudden feeling of hilarity that swept over him. "Lady, if you hunted my kin you would not be here now."

His half-cousin. Fingolfin's daughter. That was who she reminded him of. She had been much a friend of all Feanor's children, and a canny woodswoman besides. The easy arrogance of Morgoth's huntress was the exact same swagger he'd seen when they'd rode together in the forests, he and...

He had forgotten her name. No matter.

Just like she would have, the shadow-draped woman leaned back. "You impugn my skill, child of fire."

"I speak only the truth. Of course if you think of yourself so highly, you could pit yourself against my brother." Curufin spoke without speaking, as he would have spoken to his half-cousin, and realized too late what he had offered.

The huntress pounced. "No, please, tell me how I might test my wits against a prince of the Noldor. Perhaps I could bring home another prize to my master."

Fear froze Curufin's mind- but only for a moment. Then long dormant gears began to move.

"I cannot say exactly where he will be, nor what paths he walks," he said slowly, "But I can tell you this: His host hunts each full moon among the woods, a wild sport where they little recognize their own friends at the end of the night but know their prey in an instant, and Huan who was born in Valinor will notice your scent if you come within a league of him with orc accompaniment."

It was a small lie. He knew where Celegorm would be- should be. The revels of Orome, kept up in an altered form in this new land, followed a very strict script and were, by sacred tradition, held not more than a day's ride from sober friends. He knew his cousin and his brother, he knew how the mind of a hunter worked, and he knew that the Enemy always cheated. His shadowed acquaintance would try to slip around, insinuate herself into the company, and thus strike- he had all but told her to. Morgoth kept servants capable of subtlety, though in their hands a better word was cowardice.

Huan, of course, would not be fooled. They had learned early on that no disguise could fool his nose. In the shape of a wolf, a hound, a woman, or, Curufin noted for the first time the fine bones in the leather of her cloak like spreading fingers, she would be found out.

And then Celegorm would know he was alive and still fought. Celegorm would... Curufin cut off his train of thought before it could become delusional and focused on the woman in front of him and his still shaky plan.

"And what should I do with your brother when I catch him?" the dark huntresss half-sang.

Curufin shrugged. "Oh, you should probably kill him. He's not nearly as well behaved as I am."

The idea of Celegorm being 'prisoned, at his hand, by his doing, was sickening, but he could not let it show. Besides, if such a thing did come to pass it would be better for Celegorm to be dead. To live with the oath in captivity was a terrible thing.

The lady laughed. "You are cold, fire's child! Has my lord banked your famed family flame?" She made a rude (and anatomically impossible) hand gesture, that only served to deepen the pit in his stomach.

No, Curufin thought, this place did not make me. I am no one's fault but my own. My own and my father's.


End file.
